Country Wishes

by RaeAnne Hadley

  What about his team?

  There was a faint movement at his arm, so he turned his head.

  Thor.

  His partner’s snout nudged his arm.

  A monumental effort on his part to reach for his friend, resulted in a hand covered in warm blood. Jake raised his head then dropped it and shut his eyes.

  How Thor had managed to be at his side, he couldn’t imagine, except the dog was known for his tenacity. As Jake remembered Thor’s heroic effort, it was because of that degree of loyalty, that he was not long for this world. The brave animal’s intestines poured out on the dirt.

  Jake met Thor’s pleading eyes, as if he were apologizing for being unable to save them both.

  Thor managed to crawl closer, licked his cheek, then laid down his head and shut his eyes.

  Thor was gone.

  Jake looked away, saying a prayer for his best friend.

  A thick layer of smoke hovered in the air. Through the plume and to his right, the crinkled remains of the Humvee’s front passenger door came into view, pulverized and distorted into a hunk of scrap metal courtesy of the blast. It had to be the culprit for his various degrees of aches and pains. Searching the landscape, there was no trace of anyone.

  With a sniper present, he knew better than to shout.

  Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Spying movement off to the right, near the third house Flynn and Mortenson cleared, Jake clumsily turned over.

  Insurgents.

  He braced his gloved palms on the ground and shoved himself up, swaying as pain-induced-dizziness promptly and awkwardly toppled over when his legs gave way. He fell on his face, skinning his forehead, nose, and chin. Lifting his head, a drop of blood rolled off the tip of his nose. He tasted blood and tried to spit but drool rolled down his chin. He closed his eyes and channeled the highly trained soldier within to keep it together.

  More movement.

  A second rebel, garbed all in black, leaned out past the front of the burning Humvee.

  Jake reached for his weapon. The Beretta M9 in his hand offered a small amount of relief. At least now he was armed. Turning his head to the left, he spied more movement with his good eye.

  He made a split-second decision and removed a grenade from his belt then set it on the ground beside him.

  The realization that his best chance of survival depended on the pretense of being a corpse, he tilted his head in an awkward position and froze.

  With one eye opened, he cursed his hearing impairment, but it was the sight of someone peeking around the burning vehicle, aiming a machine gun pointed in his direction that currently held his attention.

  He continued to feign dead even as rapid movement near the burning shell of the vehicle drew his focus.

  On the ground, trying to pull himself to safety, Flynn, covered in blood, raised a hand to beg for help.

  Flynn’s mouth moving in silent appeal.

  And while Jake did his best to refrain from motion, his body began to vibrate, and not in a good way. His lower body slowly came to life. Pain set in, his legs trembling violently. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the intensity built. Something was seriously wrong.

  Three men, dressed in black, faces covered, raced to Flynn and proceeded with a barrage of fire.

  Flynn’s body jerked as dozens of rounds pierced the length of his body.

  Jake clamped his eyes shut, fear building that the rest of his team had already met the same fate.

  If this was where he was going to die, he’d damn well take as many of the bastards who had just executed Flynn with him.

  Psyching himself into action, he log-rolled onto his stomach. He reached for the grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed the explosive directly at the terrorists.

  He ducked and threw his arms up over his head in protection.

  The blast sent debris and shrapnel his way.

  He immediately raised his head and pointed his Beretta, ready to draw a bead on anyone who might have survived the explosion, completely ignoring the metal fragments embedded in the back of his hands.

  No further movement.

  His head felt heavy. He sagged with relief as dizziness set in, followed by double vision.

  Jake had no idea how much time had passed from the time the sniper’s bullet took out Garcia until now. He lay back on the ground, eyes closed. The silence from the initial percussive blast was still with him. It was to be expected from what he’d seen and heard from other soldiers involved in similar explosions.

  He tasted blood. Leaning over, he coughed and spit to keep from choking. A small puddle of blood pooled in the dirt beside his face.

  Out of nowhere, a whipping wind whirled around him. Damn, just what he needed. But when he turned his head to see if it was a full-on dust storm blew in, he grew excited and frightened at the same time realizing the dust was thanks to rotor wash of a helo.

  Fine grains of sand pelted him, stinging his bare skin. Shielding his face, he refused to blink until the Black Hawk landed, fearing it was a mirage.

  His body began to quake violently, chest heaving, as his body was slammed with the immediate onset of chills.

  By the time a medic jumped from helo, racing his way, two other soldiers jumped out, checked for survivors then stood guard near the hatch.

  Jake closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Please don’t let me die. Let me make it home to Carrie.

  The medic’s mouth moved.

  He managed to motion he couldn’t hear.

  None of his limbs worked now.

  He didn’t feel a thing when the medic inserted an IV or when he slapped some gauze on Jake’s cheek and wrapped his face, completely covering his right eye. What Jake couldn’t understand was why the corpsman spent so much time on his right foot. The guy avoided eye contact but gave him a lame thumbs-up. When the medic was done, he motioned for the two soldiers by the UH-60 Black Hawk, to bring the stretcher.

  Before he knew it, he was fastened in and the helo lifted off.

  Jake’s mouth went dry. His vision in his good eye wavered, fading in and out, intermixed with spinning, psychedelic, paisley shapes as his world slowly faded to black.

  Chapter Three

  January 5th, 2019

  With a flourish, Carrie added her signature, finalizing the document, then fed it into the scanner beside her desk. The machine sent the scan to her email. After she saved it into her sales files, she forwarded it to Nate Spinelli, the loan officer at the bank. Reaching for her cold cup of coffee, she reclined back in her burgundy leather chair and let out a sigh. All that was left was final approval from the finance company. This would be her second sale of the month and the new year had barely started.

  Her assistant marched to stand before her desk, breaking into her version of a happy dance. Amanda Babcock was a tall, thin, leggy, twenty-year-old, wiggling in place with a shimmy in her shoulders, and holding up a fax as her excitement bubbled over.

  “Eeeee—” she let out a loud trill, falsetto squeal, stamping her feet like an excitable teenager. Amanda was only two months away from turning twenty-one. “You got it.” The red-face young woman overflowed, sincerely delighted for her.

  Amanda’s high energy warmed Carrie’s heart, she couldn’t prevent the chortle that burst from her mouth. She shook her head then took a sip of cold coffee. “Slow down—what are you talking about?”

  “The house. They accepted your offer.” Amanda handed her the fax.

  Carrie froze, then jumped up and reached for the fax, dumping her drink across her desk blotter. Was it possible? She read the fax. Twice.

  Yes!

  She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. Peace and harmony filled her. She was about to be the owner of her very first home. A two-story, three-bedroom, 1960’s farmhouse on thirty-seven acres.

  5740 Carriage Hill Road was all hers.

  She stood and said, “Come on. Let’s go. I’m treating you to lunch after we
swing by to check out my new house.” Running on a high she could hardly contain Carrie grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk and rushed for the door with Amanda racing to catch up.

  Once in her older SUV, she let out a pent-up sigh. Her hand shook as she inserted the key into the ignition then fumbled further while attempting to fasten her seatbelt. Carrie blew out a slow breath before starting her car.

  “It’s nice to know you can still get excited and be happy.” Amanda turned in her seat and crowed. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “What do you mean?” Carrie stilled at Amanda’s comment.

  “This is the first time since I can’t remember when that I’ve seen a true smile on your lips. Everyone’s noticed. You’ve been out of it for a while now.”

  Carrie frowned. “I didn’t real—"

  “I’m sorry.” Amanda covered her mouth then blushed and turned to look out the passenger window. “Me and my big mouth. I don’t want you to think you’re being gossiped about. It’s just…well you obviously have something on your mind.”

  She hated being a topic of conversation. Couldn’t stand to be the object of pity. Then feeling guilty for her reaction, she stifled further response so as not to say anything she couldn’t take back.

  But could Amanda be telling the truth? Was she really that bad?

  She thought back—

  It started New Year’s Day when she discovered she’d lost her necklace from Jake. The situation was exacerbated by extreme guilt, thanks to her wish at the well.

  The morning after she made her wish, she realized her necklace was gone. Horrified, she’d backtracked everywhere to find it. The loss of her precious necklace on top of her wish felt like an omen.

  A bad omen.

  But that wasn’t something she was willing to share with Amanda, or anyone else for that matter.

  Parked in front of her new home, she removed the key from the lockbox and let them in, her mind already whirling, taking mental notes on changes she planned to make. New paint for the exterior, white with forest green trim. Fresh paint on the picket fence.

  Old bourbon roses to line the front of the house.

  Inside, with an appraising eye, she continued to catalog future renovations. Once the downstairs was reviewed, Carrie headed for the stairs. She just placed her hand on the banister when her phone beeped with a text message.

  It was from Hank Lassiter, Jake’s dad. She figured he was just verifying their bi-weekly Sunday dinner. She considered cancelling this week. It was getting harder and harder to act as if everything was fine.

  She’d read the message later. Today was special. Nothing would ruin this day for her.

  Upstairs, she took pictures of the bedroom on her phone. She couldn’t wait to look for blinds and curtains, paint samples, and trim, the little touches that would make the place her own.

  Amanda followed in her wake making suggestions of her own. “I’ll help you paint when you’re ready.”

  When they were finished, Carrie locked the door. “Ready for lunch? It’s time to celebrate.”

  Amanda responded, “Sure, where are we going?”

  “Stonehouse.” Carrie winked.

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “Really? I’ve heard the most amazing things about that place. Are you sure there isn’t someone special you’d rather take there?”

  “No, you brought me the good news, made my day, we’re going—no arguments,” Carrie said.

  Half an hour later they placed their order.

  Their soup had just been delivered when her phone rang.

  Janine Lassiter, Jake’s mom.

  Carrie sent it to voicemail, frustrated by the intrusion.

  Their soup was followed by sandwiches, a Monte Cristo for Amanda and a Bistro Steak for Carrie.

  They split a Crème Brûlée served with coffee for dessert.

  Carrie paid the tab and they headed back to work.

  Amanda thanked her for the third time as they arrived back at the office elated and sated.

  Carrie let out a snort of laughter, as Amanda continued to relay the antics from her New Year’s Eve date with her boyfriend, Zeke.

  She pushed open the glass door and came to an immediate halt.

  Amanda slammed into her back, knocking her off balance.

  Carrie lunged a step forward coming face-to-face with the Lassiters.

  Janine held a crushed tissue in one hand, pale and sniffing, leaning into the side of her grim-faced husband, Hank.

  “Wh—what?” An icy flush washed over her. Feeling suddenly fragile enough to break in two, Carrie had no idea how she managed to get the single word out of her mouth.

  Amanda drew up next to her and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight.

  Carrie leaned on Amanda for support.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Hank lifted his chin and stood stiffly, arm around his wife at his side. His face was a ghastly shade of white, his expression was strained. Jake’s dad looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight.

  Leland Jenkins came to stand on the other side of Carrie and put his arm around her, ushering them into his office where he closed the door, to allow them privacy.

  Carrie took a seat, her bottom perched on the edge of a chair. She read the pain in Hank’s eyes as he looked from her to Janine. “Jake.” She swallowed hard before covering her mouth. “Oh God…is he—”

  “No,” Hank said, then looked at his wife, squeezing her hand.

  Carrie noted a wad of paper crushed in his hand.

  “I’m sorry if you thought—” He closed his eyes, breathed in deep and continued. “He’s had an accident. They were out on patrol. Their vehicle hit an IED. Jake is the sole survivor.”

  Her wish at the well.

  She did this. “Oh, God, no!” Carrie reached for the missing necklace and began to sob. It was all her fault.

  Hank continued. “We received a telegram this morning.” He flattened out the paper, holding it out to her.

  She reached for the missive, tears flooding her eyes, impeding her vision. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she tried again. “I can’t see—” She handed the paper back.

  “He’s being flown to Landstuhl Military Hospital in Germany. We won’t know more until he returns to the states.”

  “I’ve got to talk to him.” Carrie sniffed, looking to Hank for hope.

  Hank spread his arms offering an invitation.

  Carrie flew to him, sobbing openly.

  “Don’t worry, Honey, we’ll keep you updated. As soon as they give us a number, I’ll message it to you.” Hank rubbed his hands up and down her back. “We’re as anxious as you are to hear from him.”

  Between the shock of the news from the Lassiters and her own guilt, she broke down completely, shedding bitter tears of sorrow.

  She clung to Hank, unable to sort out her emotions. Fear, remorse, trepidation…and yet grateful he was still alive. Surely, that alone meant something. But she didn’t know what. She had to stay positive, holding on to anything, any possibility that Jake would be okay. What she wanted was for Jake to march his happy ass through the door, smile and act like it was a bad April Fool’s joke.

  It wasn’t.

  What had she said at the well?

  "Please give me a sign that he's the one. Bring him home. I don't care what it takes."

  What a fool.

  Carrie felt herself withdrawing. Her body felt like a giant ice cube, slowly melting from her own tears, her heart ached, her insides withered, in danger of fading into nothingness.

  There was an echo of voices, but focus escaped her.

  Hank placed a call to her folks, asking them to come get her—that she hadn’t taken the news well.

  Janine and Amanda helped her into her sweater.

  Leland made a cup of tea then pressed it into her hands. He squatted down before her. “Take some time off. You’ve had a shock. Go see your young man and bring him home. Just the sight of you will be all the
medicine he needs.”

  Seeing Jake. Oh God…how could she face him?

  Intellectually, she knew she was being unreasonable, ridiculous even. No wish could cause a bomb to go off. But all the same, she felt responsible.

  How would Jake ever forgive her when she couldn’t forgive herself?

  Chapter Four

  When Jake finally managed to carve his way through the fog, up past the heavy waves of stormy emotions, across an endless ocean of brief and painful memory clips, made up of his last tour of duty, he decided he was grateful that there wasn’t one blood vessel in his body that didn’t hurt.

  Proof he was alive.

  He blinked trying to get his good eye to focus. At least he wasn’t going to lose his injured eye.

  Jake had been unconscious when they’d medevacked him to Germany, where he’d spent ten days at the Landstuhl Medical Center. They’d performed surgery on his eye. He’d have to wear a patch for another two weeks. He was also still running a fever and the severe concussion made it difficult for him to concentrate. He had overheard the doctors say it was touch and go for a few days, then he stabilized, and had been transported to Walter Reed Medical Center in the states.

  No sooner did the thought settle in then he was overpowered by reality. He alone had survived the recent patrol mission.

  His team was gone.

  Thor had saved his life, knocking him out of the way. He, too, was dead.

  Porter - his buddy, his right-hand man - the one person he confided in. Porter had been a surrogate for Boomer, his best friend since kindergarten.

  Garcia - the clown - his practical jokes kept them all from losing their shit in the thick of things.

  Chang - the preacher - always leading the prayer before and after their missions.

  Flynn - the lady’s man - there wasn’t a nurse he hadn’t hit on.

  And Mortenson - the kid - the newest member of the team…only twenty-one.

  All gone!